


Them

by Minirose96



Series: Virtual Connection [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood Drinking, F/M, Her - Freeform, Mycroft is still meddling, NO rape, No Non-con or dub-con sex, Not So Artificial Now, Strangulation/ non-con breathplay, but still, slight mutilation, some bad things.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:52:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minirose96/pseuds/Minirose96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly's real, but she's definitely got some explaining to do. Questions unanswered - How did it start? - What happened? - Why did Mycroft choose her? - Sherlock's shocked, a first for him, John's accepting, And Molly, well, Molly's gotten herself mixed up into some real problems. Time is ticking. Will the false program and the machine be together, or will to many problems to bear?</p><p>*Direct Sequel to Her*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Truth Revealed

_She smiled softly, and looked down, though still gazing at him through her lashes. "Hi. I'm Molly."_

_"That's a plain name, Molly." Sherlock's jaw locked. No. Impossible._

_John was glancing between then, wondering what the hell was going on._

_"Molly's an acceptable name, to most."_

_Bloody hell._

_Sherlock spun on his heel and walked out, slamming the door behind him._

John was utterly dumbstruck as he watched Sherlock take off before glancing ahead once more at the woman in front of him, who looked just a step away from a breakdown of her own. "What's going on here?"

Molly sucked up any hurt she may have been feeling - and she was definitely feeling it - as she looked to John. She smiled softly. It was good to see him in the flesh, even with the. . . unusual circumstances. "Hello John. . .I'm Molly. The Molly. It's a long story, but I'm not a program. Mycroft -"

"Bloody hell." John interrupted. "Sherlock's going to kill him. He's been a wreck you know." his expression softened then, and without warning, he approached her, and wrapped his arms around her. "Thank bloody hell you're real. We've missed you - all of us." he pulled away just slightly, to look her in the eyes. "You are not allowed to do that again, just so you know."

Molly was stunned. She expected a lot of things, hurt, anger, maybe a bit of hate, from both of them, but John, always John, was so kind to her. She remembered all the times he defended her against Sherlock in the beginning. It was a miracle, and it took all her will power not to cry with happiness. Things could be right again.

_Well. . . maybe not._

The thought was unwanted, but Molly couldn't help but look towards the door that Sherlock had left from just moments ago. He, at least, seemed to well and truly despise her. She wondered, and even hoped a little, that most of his rage was against Mycroft - he certainly wasn't on her good list right now, after everything he had done.

John seemed to catch her mood, and he too glanced towards the door. "I'll talk to him. He's just. . . upset." Understatement. "Listen, if you still have his number. . ."

"I do. . . I was told not to contact anyone though. . ." Molly admitted, looking down at the ground. "I'll explain everything, I promise. It. . . it wasn't meant to be like this."

John nodded. "I'll hold you to that. Just, for now, pretend it's all normal. Text him the information on the body, because he'll want it once he calms down."

Molly nodded, and after the two exchanged a few more words, John left, and she returned to the body. In some ways, she was glad for the interruption. The poor woman on the slab had undergone a horrible death, and she wasn't looking forward to finding out what other, hidden damage might be lurking under the skin.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Sherlock compounded the information in his mind, piecing things together finally. Every odd habit, every annoying reaction from the program, every too-human sound, how had he not seen it? Even John had seen it, hell, even bloody  _Anderson_ had made quips about him finally finding a freak-girl for himself.

He slammed the doors on his way up to his flat, causing Mrs. Hudson to call a derogatory worried statement up, but the words didn't even register. He had things to do, things to delete and purge, as they should have been from the start.  _Stupid,_ he sneered. Emotions, weak, useless. He should have  _known,_ but he had been blinded by them.

He went to his laptop, still open - he rarely turned it off anymore - and made his first step in the purging. That damned cat. He deleted the background, leaving it as the plain windows symbol, before turning it off completely, and shoving it away. Stupid, useless, he should have known.

What else? Immediately, his eyes went to a stack of sheet music, where he'd written down the song. Had he needed to? Of course not, he'd had it memorized from the first time he'd played it. Sentiment, cold and cruel, had been the only reason to bother copying it to paper. Sentiment, he registered coldly, was also the reason he had the sheets in his hands. Sentiment, rage, had him tearing the pages, until they were in strips and squares no bigger than his palm. He released them then, allowing the torn scraps to scatter around the already messy room. What did it matter?

With a huff, he threw himself onto the couch, facing the back of it an effectively blocking out the world. What did the world matter, it's not as if it had done him any good as of late.

Of course, the world didn't seem to have any intention of allowing him his privacy, because no sooner had he settled than the door the the flat opened. Familiar footsteps.  _John._ His mind registered dully.

"Piss off."

Still, John walked into the room, and let out an annoyed sigh. "You've said that so many times, it's lost it's affect mate, now quit being a prat. I should think you'd be happy - you didn't lose the woman you love after all."

At the mention of that word (you know which one I'm talking about) Sherlock sat bolt upright, and glared at John. "I do not, and have never loved anyone, least of all a bloody  _computer program._ " He spat the words out, standing to hover over the other man.

John glared right back. "Molly isn't a computer program, she's real, we've met her. Well, I met her, you were too busy running away from a difficult situation. Quit denying your bloody feelings. You were heart broken when you thought Mycroft got rid of her, and right now, you being a prick isn't going to help anyone."

"I was not running! And I was not heart broken, I was annoyed at his meddling, as always. You've got no right to tell me what  _my_ feelings are. As I've told you before,  _I don't do feelings,_ so kindly piss off, and quit telling me I've got them!" Sherlock had begun to raise his voice, until at the end he was practically shouting.

John shook his head, looking away from Sherlock's almost animalistic appearance. "Fine, Sherlock. Say you don't have feelings. You're wrong, but I'm not going to argue with you. I know what mourning looks like, and for you it's secluding yourself from the world, and playing your violin until it sounds like the instrument itself is crying."

He sighed, and looked back up. "I just hope you smarten up and try to work things out with the only person I've ever seen you actually happy with - machine or not, and thank hell not. She's real, and she's practically waiting for you. You're the only thing holding you back."

"Get out." Sherlock said coldly, turning away from him.

"Fine." John did just that, shutting the door quietly behind him. Still, he couldn't help but smirk, knowing his words struck a nerve. Hopefully, it was the right one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, there's the awaited Chapter One of the sequel to Her. I hope it held up to the standard you all have set for me.
> 
> Until next time! :*


	2. Text

Sherlock listened to the door close quietly as John shut it behind him, but still he didn't move until the second door opened and closed downstairs.

John's words, curse them, gnawed at his mind, just as he knew John knew they would.

_She's real, and she's practically waiting for you. You're the only thing holding you back._

He hated these banal thoughts, caused by basic words strung together in the correct fashion. It was all so animalistic, instinctual even, to feel the desire he did, after everything that  _she_ did to him. He counted all the lost case hours, all the angry words at his friends, the sneering jibs at Mrs. Hudson and John and Lestrade, all for a failing human emotion that wouldn't just fade.

And now it was back, as though it had never left, but simply lay dormant in his chest, waiting to spring as soon as the warmth he had been missing was found again.

_Love._

It sickened him.

It enticed him.

It seemed to called his name, an ever-present voice in his mind that just couldn't be shut up, not matter how many walls he reestablished in his mind or fortified against the onslaught.

His phone beeped. Message, unknown sender.

Distraction.

Eager for something, anything to clear his mind, possibly allow him to sort through his muddled thoughts, Sherlock instantly dug his phone from his pocket, and checked the message.

 _Body, twenty-seven, female. Bruising matches past victims. Toxicology report sent off already. Might be best if you come to Bart's to see for yourself, please. -_ Molly

Sherlock felt his jaw clench. A case, ready and waiting, serial killer who had a clear type, but still couldn't be caught. it was perfect for a distraction, and she had the body.

The stone cold truth hit him then, that she had had his number, had it memorized, and had never, not once, bothered to message him. No, she had let him  _wilt_ into this state of madness.

This delusions drained. If there had been that emotion - He refused to even think the word - It could never had been shared between  _them._ No. He may not be a master at sentiment, but Being friends with John had taught him the more important parts.

You don't allow the ones you feel strongly towards to suffer.

Hate.

Yes, that was the right word.

He  _hated_ her for what she had made him, this weak version of himself, weighed down by emotions, crumbling his walls and destroying the reserves he had laid to protect against them since The Woman.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, he couldn't direct all his anger at her - though she undoubtedly had a huge part in his downfall.

No, this was Mycroft's fault. And he would pay, dearly for bringing that false program into his flat.

First though, he had to. . . fix things. Yes, that might be the right turn of phrase.

He looked down at the scraps of paper that had once been the song, Molly's Song. He bent down, and picked them up before calmly walking to the kitchen rubbish bin and tossing the ripped pages away. He didn't want to see the shreds of the paper, a metaphor in his mind for the shreds the emotions had torn into his mind, flitting around the flat at the slightest breeze. He would forget. He would  _make_ himself forget.

He felt almost relieved with that decided.

he looked down at his phone, and added the number to his contacts as well. Molly. And this one couldn't be deleted. His lips quirked up in the barest hint of a smirk. Well, not in the way Mycroft had deleted the program anyway. He would delete her in his own way, from his mind, until she was just the pathologist at Bart's, annoying and bothersome just like the rest of them.

He still had Mycroft to reprimand.

He still had the case to finish.

He still had a chunk of his life to purge.

Now it was time to prioritize.

 _Send me the Tox reports as soon as received. Send pictures of bruising patterns, and any other unusual marks as well. You know what to do. -_  SH

He shot that off to her in an instant as he processed the information. The bruising, always the same on every victim from what he'd already read of the report files. Bruising on wrist and ankles - binding marks. Bruising on neck, from cordage - multiple, all made within four days of the woman's death and seven days after initial killing. Scratches, slim and short to thick and long, always in cross-crossing patterns down the arms made in the three days after disappearance before strangulation pattern begins - shows a love for blood but no care for the bandaging since the wounds are allowed to heal before death.

This man - and it was a man - had a very distinct pattern, every time. The woman, always between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, were kidnaps, cut, and strangled. man, nicknamed the KCS killer - Kidnap,Cut,Strangle, how original naming - seemed to prefer lighter hair, as of the seven victims, three were blonde, two brunette, one auburn, and one dark. All were petite women who showed little knowledge of how to defend themselves properly.

With the basics of the case laid out, and more information coming from Molly - He fully intended to use her as an assistance program until the case was over and he could deal with her and the mental damage she had done - that was two of the important things to do on his mental checklist taken care of.

Case.

Molly.

Now, to deal with Mycroft and his meddling.

He grabbed his coat from the hook and was out the door.

Sherlock had a single-minded determination to confront Mycroft on his actions months prior. He had not spoken to his brother since he had deleted the program from his computer. Anger, betrayal, the urge to simply kill him and be done with it, had been too strong for him to risk seeing him and upsetting Mummy further with the knowledge that her children just couldn't get along.

Now, he didn't care. Mummy could be as angry as she pleased, after his brother's actions.

It wasn't hard to deduce the major points of what had transpired behind the scenes. Mycroft had found her shortly after John moved out, and he had propositioned her with the idea of becoming a false artificial intelligence program. Why she accepted, he didn't know, nor did he care.

It had happened.

It was done.

And Mycroft would pay.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

_She'll be perfect._

_So kind, such a pretty face._

_I can't wait to see it twisted in pain._

_I bet she'll die so beautifully._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone says that the finest line in emotions is the one between Love and Hate. What do you guys think of that? :3
> 
> Thanks so much for all the wonderful Kudos and Comments for the last Chapter! I'm so glad ya'll are liking the sequel so far ^.^


	3. Why

"But sir, you can't go in there! Mr. Holmes is incredibly busy and you haven't made an appointment." The receptionist, not Mycroft's usual assistant who would have known better, tried to stop Sherlock as he marched past the desk, heading straight for his brother's office. He was working late, as usual.

"Mr. Holmes doesn't have any meetings, Mr. Holmes is filling out paperwork, Mr. Holmes will see me, and most importantly, Mr. Holmes is probably expecting me, so for the sake of law and order, I suggest you quit now before he fires you for your negligence in learning your boss's relations." Sherlock barely paused for a breath through his seething monologue, and his words had the desired affect; she halted mid-step, and turned to scurry away, face flushed.

Was he harsh? Yes. Was the woman partially to blame? Again, in his mind, yes, so he didn't allow himself to feel at all guilty.

Now, back to more important matters.

Sherlock entered Mycroft's office silently, as opposed to the ruckus he had made getting there. He knew his brother knew he was coming. His brother knew he knew. There was no need for angry words or barging in like some uncivilized madman when a silent glare was just as well received and just as effective.

Mycroft simply looked up from his paperwork, sighed, and slipped the confidential documents into a drawer in his desk. "So Sherlock, you've finally decided to grace me with your presence. Whatever for?" He asked, keeping his face carefully blank.

"You know exactly why I'm here Mycroft." Sherlock replied stonily. He didn't bother sitting down in the available seat across from Mycroft's. He stood on the other side, one hand on the desk as he leaned over slightly, glare still in place. "What was the purpose of putting Molly in that position? Why?" his tone was stoic, but his eyes revealed the anger, pain, the demand for an answer that his voice hid away.

"It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, Sherlock. You were acting foolishly without Mr. Watson - need I remind you of the scare you gave Mummy the day before I presented her to you? I wanted to put someone with you that you would be interested in and who would be able to stand your lack of tact or courtesy for an extended period of time. Ms. Hooper was in a completely coincidental bind, and she fit the persona I was looking for, so I offered to make her, shall we say, problems, disappear if she would assist me for an undisclosed amount of time." Mycroft spoke normally, no real tone to his voice, but that fact alone had Sherlock narrowing his eyes, along with his choice of phrasing.

_A completely coincidental bind my arse._

"What was the 'coincidental bind'?" he demanded, refusing to play along with his brother's games.

"You offend me brother. I had no such cause in Ms. Hooper's downfall. It was her own mistake in those she chose to keep company with. A report forgery that cost her her job, actually. It was in a way that would make it. . . difficult to acquire a new position in the same profession. I simply offered to use my minor role in the British government to erase the damage."

Sherlock's jaw clenched. He could easily piece together certain parts that Mycroft left unsaid. Manipulative was not a strong enough word for the underhandedness his brother would use to get his way at times.

"And you decided to end the contract after certain sentiments became plain to you."

Finally, Mycroft's stoic mask broke, his lip twitched downwards in distaste. "Yes. Sentiment, or, let's call it by the word you used, love. You fell in love with a program, and Ms. Hooper broke the rules of our arrangement by returning the feeling. I had such high hopes with her history that it wouldn't be an issue. Naturally, I terminated the contract, though I did still fulfill my part of the bargain. It wasn't her fault you went against your nature and fell in love after all."

Sherlock clenched his fists. "And you didn't feel the need to tell me that she was real after the contract was terminated?"

"Of course not. I knew you'd react rashly, and you have."

"She's working at Bart's, the only hospital I frequent for my cases. You knew we'd eventually come into contact."

"She found a way around the end of our agreement."

"What agreement?"

"That should be obvious by now, don't you think. Surely you've not lost your touch because of her."

Sherlock growled his frustrations under his breath, and slammed his fist onto the table before pushing away from it to pace, to allow his mind to take in the new information.

Mycroft had caused all of this, he didn't quite know how, but he knew that Mycroft was responsible for Molly's loss of employment. He'd set up the initial linking program. He'd disconnected the program later. He'd. . .  _Oh, stupid, obvious._ "You told her that any communication she initiated between us would be the end of her new career, but you never limited her to places that she wouldn't come into contact with me at." As the words came, he stopped pacing.

"But that's not like you either. You would have made it known that she was not allowed to work there if you truly didn't want her there. You don't miss such innocuous details, because those are frequently the downfall of men."

"I did not believe she would be quite so argumentative. She informed me that our verbal agreement didn't limit her places of employment. As you know, I never go back on my word."

"You're still planning something." Sherlock accused, eyes narrowed.

"Believe what you want Sherlock. Go ask Ms. Hooper for her story if you must." With that, Mycroft looked down at his phone, and frowned. "I've a few things to attend to now. I assume you can sort things out yourself."

Sherlock had already been planning to leave, or else he would have challenged the clear dismissal in Mycroft's words. As it was, he had too much to think about. He still didn't have all the information, and that fact irked him.

Why?

What had made her a good candidate?

Why had she chosen to put herself in that situation?

How did she view the ordeal?

how had Mycroft covered for his own arse in getting her fired?

Too many questions, not enough information, and he couldn't be sure the information Mycroft gave him was authentic, considering the rest of the meddling the man had done in his life recently.

Later, he'd get the answers.

For now, nothing would change.

He still had the case.

He still had a murderer to catch.

And tomorrow, he had a toxicology report and seven corpses to reexamine for evidence. He'd have all the bodies prepared for inspection in the morning.

Everything else could wait.

Everything else would wait.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

_Yes, come closer._

_Stupid girl, you really should know better._

_Hasn't anyone ever taught you to be afraid of the dark?_

_Too late. Much too late._

_And now, you're mine._

There was a scream, but no heard.

It was over in minutes, the unconscious woman loaded into the vehicle.

It was time to play.


	4. Too Much to Bear

Sherlock returned to 221B for the remainder of the night. He locked himself in his room, ignoring when Mrs. Hudson asked him if everything was all right. It was such a useless question, considering the fact that if it has to be asked, obviously everything was  _not_  all right.

Still, he refused to take his emotions out on the kind old woman. She certainly had done nothing to deserve his spite.

Spite.

Was that even the proper word for what he was feeling? It didn't seem to accurately encompass the full extend of what he was feeling.

Sherlock sat on his bed with his back against the head board. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared at the periodic table on his wall as he examined and categorized his emotions in an attempt to better understand them.

Anger. Yes, he was angry with his brother for meddling in his affairs, and causing all this to begin with.

Betrayal. He felt betrayed by Mycroft and Molly, for the deceit and the pain it had caused him. It didn't matter that Molly was under some sort of verbal contract. She should have found a way to contact him. He would have if the situation had somehow been reversed.

Confusion. Though he was loathe to admit it even to himself, he was confused because Mycroft's explanation left him with more questions than answers. He hoped that things would be clearer after he had the chance to hear Molly's explanation as well.

Hope. He wasn't even sure what he felt hopeful for. He was just able to recognize the feeling, and acknowledge that it was there. He would worry about the why of it later.

Hate. No, wait, that wasn't right. The past piece of his puzzle of emotions wasn't hate. It was similar, but where hate brought cold and even malice, this emotion brought something warmer.

He spent a majority of his isolation staring at but not actually seeing the periodic table as he tried in vain to identify that last gnawing emotion.

He was almost relieved when his phone rang, offering a much needed distraction. Never mind that he had spent the entire night worrying over his damned emotions, and well into the morning as well.

_We've found an abduction sight. It's him. Are you coming? - GL_

It perked his interest immediately. He knew who Lestrade was referring to even without the media's pitiful nickname for the man. The KCS killer had taken another victim, and they had a crime scene. One of the reasons he was so hard to pin down was the lack of a known abduction sight, even with the cameras located around London. Until now, none could be positively identified. That this one had been meant that the killer finally made his mistake.

Of course, it also meant that another woman was being held captive, with approximately seven days before she was killed and her body was dumped for them to find.

Sherlock smirked.

He'd solved cased with less time before. It was all a matter of looking at the facts, and staying detached.

The victim didn't matter. Only the case mattered.

_Send me the address, I'll be there shortly. - SH_

Sherlock set his phone aside and changed quickly into a fresh suit while he waited. He was just pulling on his suit jacket when the phone let out another small ding. He buttoned it the rest of the way before picking his phone us again to look over the address.

As he headed out the door, he texted John, falling back into a familiar pattern.

_It's not home night. I have a case, KCS. I need an assistant. - SH_

a few moments later, his phone beeped with John's response. He smirked.

_Send me the address. - JW_

Sherlock did so as he made it to the curb and hailed a cab. He knew he was cheating a bit - John hated this particular killer more than some because of the violence towards women, and he'd used that to his advantage when sending him the invitation to join him. He'd known using the name would draw John out, no matter how annoyed with Sherlock he might be.

Small victories.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

The scene was already bordered off with the classic yellow crime scene tape - it hadn't actually been an address so much as an ally that Lestrade had texted him.

John, surprisingly enough, had beaten him here, and was already on the other side of the tape talking with Lestrade. He looked distressed.

Sherlock ducked under the tape to join them, cutting off their conversation with his own question. "Well? What makes you certain that this is an authentic scene?" He asked, as he glanced towards the ally in question. They were standing just outside it. Another step, and he'd officially be standing in the crime scene, but he decided to wait, just until Lestrade explained.

The detective inspector only looked annoyed with his question. "Footprint, just like the one found at the Mallory scene. The man stepped in a patch of garbage and it left an imprint."

"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaimed, not in the least bit perturbed by the looks on the two other men's faces. Both of them had an air of 'not good' in them.

Sherlock didn't care, already snapping on a pair of gloves before turning to delve into the ally to look at the scene for himself, and pick up on the clues the Yarders had definitely missed.

Scuffling. The victim was caught off guard, but she tried to fight back. Most didn't. He'd misjudged this one, obviously. Definitely still a small woman, easily over powered, but it helped set a standard for the man. At least six feet tall. That didn't limit the list of potential suspects that much, but every small scrap of information was important, because combined they led to the truth.

Something glinting caught his eye. He bent down, and picked up the device. A mobile phone. A pair of simple white headphones dangled from them. That explained quite easily why the woman was caught off guard - she hadn't been able to hear.

"I've found the victim's mobile." Sherlock said as he strode from the ally, and held the device out for Lestrade to see. "If you'll give me a moment, I can get inside."

Lestrade pursed his lips in annoyance, before nodding. "We need to know who it is as soon as possible."

With that, Sherlock turned the device around, and set to work, swiping the device on. The background was some simplistic heart and flower design. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Typical. He recognized the pattern, probably from one of those horrendous online pages.

It was a pattern code, Sherlock could see the marks left by the owner. She rarely used it for anything but music, it seemed. Useless device, if that was all. Why not just get an MP3 of some sort? Sentiment, obvious.

Ah well, he knew what it was anyway, no need to dwell on the woman, she wasn't important.

He drew the pattern. . .

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

She let out a small whimper as she woke up, her tongue pressing against a taunt line on fabric. Gag, her mind filled in for her. At least it was clean.

Her eyelids fluttered. No blind fold. She looked around the room.

Plain, nothing special. A door was right across from her. A small cupboard on the far wall.

She was lying on a mattress, but there were no sheets. Dots of red were scattered on the fabric, with no real pattern. It didn't take a genius to know that the stains were of blood.

She shuddered, and tried to sit up. She couldn't.

Bound, wrist behind her back, and ankles together. She felt like a worm, waiting for a bird to pluck her from the ground after a fresh rain. So vulnerable.

At least she still had her clothes.

She tried to calm her breathing and listen. A scuttling from above her. Footsteps.

She was underground? No, not exactly. A basement. A shiver ran down her spine. Who knew she was missing? No one. She didn't have anyone looking for her.

She could have wept.

She didn't want to die, not like this.

Not before everything was sorted out properly.

_I'm so sorry._

Suddenly, the footsteps stopped. Then she heard a door open, and footsteps coming down.

She swallowed through her gag as the door opened.

_... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ..._

And was met with a very familiar face, though he'd only seen it once before. He went still, every noise around him suddenly dulled to the point that he couldn't hear anything more than a buzzing.

Vaguely, he heard his name called.

He felt the phone being pried from he grasp. He let it go.

Slowly, the noise returned.

"Who is she?" Lestrade.

John was pale as he took a look at the woman on the phone. She works at Bart's. . ." His eyes glanced over at Sherlock, who was still frozen in place.

"Who is it?" Lestrade repeated.

John took a breath, steeling himself, it seemed.

"Her name's Molly Hooper."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait everyone!


	5. A Solo For A Mad Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is for future reference, and for this chapter, if you can't handle bloodplay/drinking, or mentions of cutting or strangulation, it would be best to skip any parts that skip to Molly's point of view and experience. I'm sorry for not posting warnings beforehand. I honestly had no clue that this would happen in the story until it happened. . . Does that make sense?

As soon as John uttered her name, Sherlock's mind snapped back into action. With a visible shake of his head, Sherlock began rattling off the information he had gathered that the Yarders had not yet acquired, the faster it was gained the better.

"Molly Hooper, one-hundred and ten pounds, thirty - four. She's on the older side of the murderer's scale but still fits within the parameters. Began working at Bart's three months ago. She works in the morgue, skilled pathologist but with no reliable means of defending herself. Small, petite woman, brunette, again, fits the man's usual victim classifications. She tried to depend herself, but inevitably failed, due to her being distracted by the music she was listening to - How do I know she was listening to Music? - Simple, the headphones are still attached to the device, if you pull them out you can hear what she was listening to. . ."

He spoke it all without taking a breath, so it was all one long string of almost no spaces between the words. It was almost frantic, but there was a precision to the way he strung his words together. Mentioning the device, he took it back and pulled out the headphones to allow the music to play while he continued talking.

Except he stopped as soon as he realized what he was listening to - it didn't take more than a second to recognize the chords and dips and sways of a familiar piece of music. After all, he'd composed it for her.

The dips and sways of the music were so unique, ingrained in his mind that it couldn't be any other else but the piece he'd composed for her. Even more, he knew that it from the first time playing it. The rawness, the newness of the notes, could only be described a whimsical and free. It had a brightness that had faded an all later replayings of the piece.

"Sherlock?" John said in a way that meant he'd already said it several times before with no response.

Sherlock looked up at him, and him mouth hardened. John, of course, didn't recognize the piece, did not know it's significance. No one did but the missing woman and him.

"Nothing. As I was saying, She was distracted by the music and therefore did not see or hear the assailant coming up behind her until it was too late. We now know he doesn't use a drug such as chloroform to subdue his victims during the initial kidnapping because this woman fought, hard but ultimately ineffective because the man is much larger than her. He is at least six feet tall, no taller than six feet, four inches, and has a large build, possibly a man who visits the gym often, but I can't guarantee that. It's a start, at least. The struggle was over in less than a minute, and the man carried her to his car - Yes, car, he left quickly, peeling away from the curb. He hit the gas, leaving the skid marks you see here - " He pointed out the marks. "They're freshly changed, you can tell by the clarity the tires made on the road, so also check any motor vehicle repair places and get a list of anyone who has changed the tires on their cars, in the last two or three weeks. It's a smaller vehicle, I can tell by the width of the tires. Send me any information as soon as you get it."

Again, he'd spoken quickly, barely taking a breath in that whole chunk of phrasing. Frantic, almost, but there was a controlled portion of his chaotic words.

Lestrade caught every word. He nodded solemnly. "You heard the man, check records on Gym memberships in London, and the auto shops. I want everyone on those lists cross referenced. Eliminate all females and anyone shorter than six feet. I want that list on my desk yesterday."

A small crows had gathered throughout Sherlock short mental disturbance and his subsequent explanations. The music was still playing on repeat as no one had turned it off yet. The violin solo seemed especially loud in the silence that followed Lestrade's order.

Even Anderson and Donovan were silent in the crowd, standing a few feet away from where Sherlock, Lestrade, and John were.

Of course, everyone here knew the significance of Molly, even if none of them knew the full story. Well, maybe they did, at least the important parts. After all, They had all figured long before Sherlock that Molly was a real person. He seemed to be the only one who had not seen beyond the intricate mask created by his brother. All part of his plan, he was sure.

Everyone who'd had the pleasure of speaking to Molly when he was distracted like her. She, according to them, had a bubbly, happy personality. No one could believe Sherlock had somehow acquired a pen pal, or girlfriend, or messenger, or whatever they assumed she was to him, that was as. . . as her. He couldn't blame them, looking back. He'd only seen the machine. Stupid mistake on his part.

"I said move it people!"

Lestrade's bellowing command finally stirred the crowd. People head off, several headed towards various police cars to begin tracking down the gym memberships and auto repairs shops within reasonable distances. Donovan and Anderson were among them, though they appeared to be heading back to the station to do computer work instead, start the cross referencing as data was sent in by the other officers.

Lestrade was the only one who lingered. He gave Sherlock a soft look. "We'll find her Sherlock. She's a good lass, we'll find her. I know you've been having your own problems recently with her, but you'll get the chance to fix them. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried." Sherlock said, scoffing. His eyes went blank, as they did when he was hiding himself and his emotions away. Now wasn't the time for such trivial nonsense. This was a case. He would deal with all else at it's conclusion. "Just get me the information."

With that, he turned, and strode away without waiting for a response. He'd do some information gathering of his own. Surely one of his homeless network in the area would have seen something. They were his eyes and ears around the city, that everyone ignored. If the servalience systems of the government hadn't caught anything, his homeless people would have, and he would find out what, police investigation be damned. He was not taking the risk of allowing them to handle this case.

They wouldn't be fast enough.

Already, he knew by the timeline that the cutting had begun. Three more days, and the strangulation would follow. On the seventh day, she would be killed. On they eighth, she would be found. They were already past day one. Seven days. He would solve this case before the seventh day, or he would die trying.

... ... ... ... ... ... ...

((Warning, possible trigger warning ahead. Mentions of recent past Non-Con blood drinking/mutilation))

Her arms were on fire. At least, they felt like they were.

The man had begun the familiar marks she's seen on every other victim. One X shaped lacerations on the inside of each of her arms, at the top to begin with. Each line of the X was about two inches long, and fairly deep. They would require stitches, and still most likely leave a scar. All the tests and reviews on the previous victims she had looked at had showed that.

But none of the tests had told her that he liked to taste the blood as well from the source. None of her struggles had done any good.

He'd pored some sort of cleaning agent that burned over the cuts when he was done, partially to clean them so she wouldn't get infected, and partially to erase DNA evidence. That was why she hadn't found it before, she was sure.

Disgusting.

She felt violated.

The only positive side of this was that her arms were unbound, though now she was chained to the small cot she lay on by her ankle. Still just as much of a prisoner. She couldn't even walk two steps away from the bed.

She was trapped.

Was anyone even looking for her yet?


	6. Gathering Information

Sherlock knew where and who the best eyes in the city were, and he knew for the most part which area each person was in every day. They alternated locations, so they were never in the same place in one week. To the average person the order had no rhyme or reason, but he understood the pattern so he was able to determine who had been in the area and where they were now.

That was how he found himself in a more downtown part of London. The buildings weren't in the best of condition, if they weren't abandoned entirely, but the people in the area were nice enough. It was to one of the abandoned buildings he went to. He didn't bother knocking, just brushed right in.

"I know you were located in the section of the city near Saint Bartholomew's last night. Come out and tell me what you heard and saw, now." Sherlock demanded to the empty room. To anyone else, the building looked abandoned inside and out, but in reality it was a popular squatting place for several of the homeless people in London. More importantly, he knew the man he was looking for was here now.

When no one came out immediately, he rolled his eyes. "Mouse, I've no time for this. A woman's life is on the line." He pulled out a note from his pocket, and held it up. Despite not being able to see him, he knew Mouse could see him.

Sure enough, he heard scuttling coming from a side hall, and Mouse came out. Mouse wasn't his real name, which was Michael, but the man really did look like the small creature he was named after. He had shaggy brown hair which stuck out at odd ends, and was a very small man, but when he needed to, he could get away from just about anyone in a flash. He was an excellent finder, and, most importantly, he was an excellent listener. If anyone had heard the commotion of the previous day, it was him. He just needed the right bribe to talk. Twenty quid was a good start.

Sherlock held the bill up. "Tell me what happened. You know what I'm talking about."

Mouse's gaze shifted nervously from the bill in Sherlock's hand to his face. Nervous. His words, or lack of them and hesitance, told more than he'd wanted to give away. The kidnapper was obviously someone known to the homeless network, that they feared. That wasn't odd though, considering what the man did. Murderers aren't usually popular people, after all.

Finally, he seemed to make up his mind. Licking his lips, he replied. "Big guy, wit' black 'air came walkin' 'round the area at 'bout ten. I've seen 'im around but I don' know 'is name. He went after this little lady wit' brown 'air. She was jus' listenin' to 'er music, walkin', and 'e just walked up behind 'er n' snatched 'er up real quick like. She put up a fight, I'll tell you what, but it didn' do nothin'. Dropped 'er phone thing durin' the fight, and 'e took 'er n' loaded 'er into 'is car."

He stopped talking, and Sherlock gave him the twenty before pulling out a second. Mouse's eyes went to that bill as well. Sherlock knew why; he never gave this much at one time, even for cases he deemed tens. At most, ten quid for every answered question, five for information brought to him later. Mouse was obviously eager to earn his keep and prove his usefulness. Sherlock could have smirked, had he not needed to keep a blank face for his bribing interrogation.

"Tell me what you know about the car."

"It was a dark blue, wit' a big scratch down the side. License plate was covered. It had a decal on the bumper, a bunch o' swirlin' lines." Mouse replied instantly, licking his lips once more.

"Draw the decal." Sherlock said instantly.

Mouse frowned, but he grabbed a pen out of his pocket, and a scrap of paper from off the floor. He drew the symbol using the wall as a base. It, the symbol, looked like three S's linked at their center point, encased in a circle. It was more of a flower design than random swirls. This was why Sherlock demanded a picture. Descriptions were rarely accurate, and the words 'swirled lines' encased far too many patterns for it to be of any real use. The picture, on the other hand, was worth at least a thousand words in this case.

Satisfied with his answers, Sherlock exchanged the bill for the drawing, and took a quick picture of it on his phone before tucking the scrap into his pocket for later review.

"If you find anything else, you know where I am." He said, leaving in the same fashion he entered, quickly and resolutely. This was just another piece of a puzzle that had to be completed.

As he walked down the street to hail one of the cabs that always seemed to be around for him, Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone and texted Lestrade the new information. It narrowed down the search fields even more so.

_Look for a dark blue vehicle. Big scratch on side. Decal on bumper, picture sent. Man has black hair. Narrow search results further and email them to me when available. - SH_

Even as Sherlock hit send, he knew it still wasn't a narrow enough search. There had to be several dark blue vehicles driven by black haired men all over London. Even with the limit of the decal and the scratch.

He had to look for a pattern in the locations of the body dumps. There had to be a pattern, some central point to look in first. He could accomplish that at home as he waited for the emailed information. He could do that until he could get access to the seven previous victims. Surely there was something they'd all missed that he could pick up on. In fact, he realized, Molly had sent off Toxicology reports, and had almost certainly finished the latest victim's autopsy. She may have documented something important.

It was settled then, he'd go to St. Bart's tomorrow to examine the reports and the cadavers if the cross-referenced reports weren't sent to him by then.

Sherlock set his jaw as he looked at the time. If she was taken at eleven last night, then just over one day had passed.

Six days left.


	7. The Final Piece

Three days came and went before new information came in. That's how long it took to process the lists and eliminate those who didn't fit the established type.

Sherlock hadn't spent the time doing nothing, each minute ticking away in his mind.

He examined the location where each woman was found, and where Molly herself had been abducted, both in person and on a map. There was no new evidence at the scenes, and on the map, the locations were haphazard at best. If there was a pattern, he couldn't see it, as hard as he looked.

He moved on to the physical bodies, looking for clues from the past victims.

From the first six bodies, he was angry at the damage done to them. Not by the killer, but by those who were meant to gather and preserve evidence. Whomever's job it was, Sherlock was quite certain that even Anderson could have done a better one.

The seventh body revealed the most, but still not nearly enough. Molly's notes on the subject were perfect - complete in every aspect. She hadn't skipped over a single detail, and for that he was proud of the pathologist. He'd known they would be, after seeing her work previously, though under different circumstances.

Each cut and mark was cataloged. Thanks to a toxicology report she had done, they now knew that no drugs were used at all. The victim had been conscious and able minded throughout the unjust treatment. The bruising was examined, giving an accurate time frame based on overlapping bruising.

Thanks to those notes, he was able to calculate exactly when everything would take place in the killer's domain.

But that didn't help at all, because there were still no solid clues to show a distinct area of London to begin the search. Today was not a good day to earn the consulting detective's scrutiny. Today was the day strangulation began.

It was only Lestrade getting him the cross referenced lists that stopped him from trying to deduce every individual in London into a stupor to figure out who had taken Molly.

Even with the list, there were several people to look through. With a population of roughly eight million people, and half of that being male, that made approximately four million men in London who could possibly be the killer. By eliminating those who owned dark blue cars, the number was swiftly reduced to just under half a million people. Those who went to the gym in that same category brought the number down to one hundred thousand men who could have done so. Those who recently got tires changed on their vehicles eliminated another eighty-thousand. Taking out those too short to be the killer brought the number down to approximately seven thousand individuals who fit the parameters set. And finally, the decal and the scratch. Only one thousand men within the parameters already set had a decal that even slightly resembled the picture drawn by Mouse.

One thousand men. That was still far too many for New Scotland Yard to cover in just under four days, with the legal procedures required to do a single house raid.

He could use the scratch to eliminate further, but the risk of it being fixed or repainted was far too high. The decal on the other hand, would most likely still be there since it was placed by the owner of the vehicle.

 _Think._ There had to be something he was missing, any insignificant detail that would make the list smaller.

He looked down at his arm. Three nicotine patches. He had had four on it the previous day, but John had refused to allow him to keep the fourth one on, reminding him that if he got nicotine poisoning, he wouldn't be any help to anyone. Bloody hell, he hated those occasions when John was right.

He paced across the flat, motion helping him think as much as his aggravation was blocking his thoughts. Frustration did not begin to cover how he felt. It was grasping at straws, that one little detail. He knew it was there, in his mind, so close to the surface, but he couldn't scrape away the useless information to find that one single thought that held the key.

_Oh._

It hit him like a wave across his mind, bringing a sense of accomplished peace. It was obvious.

The women were all kept alive, aware, awake. That meant that at least some of them screamed. There was also no sign of them being vocally restricted with a gag, so they would have been able to scream loudly, and often. There were never any complaints issued of a woman screaming. The silence, lack of a report, told just as much as having one would have.

It meant one of two things. Either the perpetrator had a soundproof room he kept his victims in that kept all noise inside, or he had a basement, and the natural sound barrier of the underground kept all sound inside. A basement was more likely. It was a calculated risk.

He texted Lestrade immediately.

_Cross reference the list again - with anyone who has a basement, and anyone who can be verified to have a soundproof room. Basement first. Send me both lists separately. - SH_

A very calculated risk. it would take at least another day to work on those last two pieces. At least another day for Molly.

His hand tightened painfully around his phone.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Molly felt numb. No one was looking for her. She'd be dead soon enough, just another corpse on the side of the road. A shiver ran down her spine. Her arms were burning in constant pain from the cuts he'd made on her arms. They'd scabbed over, but it hurt to even lay her arms down wrong.

The day before, he'd forced her to drink water, forced her to stay alive through the torture. She knew he demanded control. He would decide what was done to her and when. He would decide when she drank. He would decide when she didn't. He would decide when she died.

She heard footsteps above her and another chill ran through her. It was never good, when she heard those foot steps.

The door opened, and she paled further. She'd known this was coming.

He held a rope between his hands, and there was a cold grin on his face. He'd enjoy this, her screams and struggles as he wrapped the rope around her neck and squeezed. Molly saw the bruises. She knew what to expect.

It didn't stop her from feeling every pain, every second of oxygen deprivation as she clawed ineffectively at him, and at the ropes.

It didn't stop her from slipping unconscious and reawakening to the same pain several times, until he grew bored.

It didn't stop the hot, messy tears from trailing down her face as the door closed with a sad finality, locking her away once again to simply await the next torturous day.

She just had to remind herself. Three days. It would all be over in three days.


	8. Assistance Required

 

Two more days passed after Sherlock sent Lestrade the new eliminating factors. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were in the latter's office now, looking over the lists that had been provided. The first list, with the basements, had one-hundred and thirty-two names and addresses. The one with known silence rooms contained seventy-three. In all, that was two-hundred and five houses to check.

 

Starting with the basement flats as what Sherlock viewed as the most likely case, they had managed to search twenty-three houses in the last thirty-nine hours. That left one-hundred and eighty two houses to search. They had less than two days left to search the remaining number. With that time, they had to travel from one house to the next, get search warrants, and file the appropriate paperwork that went with each raid. There simply wasn't enough time with the restrictions and limitations placed on them, and the lack of man power to do as many raids as it would take to find her in time, unless they had a lucky break.

 

Lestrade knew it.

 

John knew it.

 

Everyone knew it.

 

Sherlock knew it, but refused to admit it.

 

He was aggravated, staring at the names crossed off compared to the names that remained. There were far too many. All he could do to choose the next house to search was look at the address on a map and compare it to the relative proximity between the house and the locations of where the victims were found. The problem was, the bodies were haphazard at best. Everything was haphazard, the locations, the body positions, the cuts on the victim's arms, everything.

 

Wait.

 

Of course.  _Stupid._

 

John looked tired. He'd been up most of the night helping Sherlock. Even as exhaustion nipped at him, he caught the look of realization that spread across Sherlock's face.

 

"What is it?" He asked hopefully. That caught Lestrade's attention as well, and soon both of them were watching the consulting detective as he paced back and forth across the floor of the office.

 

"The cuts on the women's arms are horribly frayed and messy, but the blade used to make the incisions on all of the victims is incredibly sharp, so much so that even a novice should be able to make straight cuts, despite the women's struggles against the motion. So, why are the cuts so messy? It's so simple! The man is trying to disguise his expertise with the blade. Now, what kind of person would need to hide his expertise? Most men in his position would want to show off their skill set, but no, he wants it to go unnoticed. So, who has the training to make precise cuts but would want to hide that? Someone on a public record of some sort, obviously. Someone in the medical field, most likely a surgeon, though it could be someone of a lesser skill set."

 

He stopped, and faced the desk, all but glaring at the lists in front of him. "He's there, somewhere, in those lists, a doctor with a preference for women he can overpower, someone who is used to having women under him. A plastic surgeon."

 

He looked up sharply at Lestrade, who seemed almost speechless, but the stiffness in his jaw showed just how seriously he was taking Sherlock's words.

 

"How soon can you eliminate these lists again to the last possibilities?" Sherlock demanded.

 

"It'll take at least another day, to cross reference these men and confirm profession."

 

"That's too much time."

 

"I can't shorten it any more. Even then, it's taking a few shortcuts."

 

Sherlock's face went oddly blank compared to the amount of fierce emotion that had been there just moments before. "There's no way?" he asked quietly. The tone was completely different. No yelling, demanding, or insulting tones. For once, he was just a man, asking for something that slowly seemed to slip out of reach.

 

Lestrade just shook his head slowly. "I can't make the computers or my men work any more or any faster than they already are. This has been our top priority case for the last six days, you know that. I'll get the suspects list reformatted again, but it will take at least a day. I'm sorry Sherlock."

 

John stepped forward, and placed a hand on his shoulder. He'd remained silent as Sherlock and Lestrade talked, but now he seemed to be needed.

 

Except, he wasn't, because less than a second had passed before Sherlock had that look in his eyes, the one that meant he was going to succeed come hell or high water, and they seemed to be in some pretty deep water.

 

Sherlock stepped away from both of them and exited the office, already pulling out his mobile. He completely ignored John and Lestrade's respective questions of 'Where are you going?' and 'What are you doing?'

 

His phone was pressed to his ear before he left the building. He had even called. This was too important to text, and he knew that would be understood by the other man on the phone, who always called and never texted. He would know the significance.

 

"I need a list of all medically trained individuals in London cross referenced with what New Scotland Yard has already in regards to the KCS case."

 

"Hello to you too, little brother."

 

Sherlock sneered. "Will you do it or not?"

 

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

 

Molly's voice was rough and chalky as she cried. It was an ugly, snotty mess that she wiped away on the back of her hand, but it only made her cry harder.

 

It had been another session of pain, of being strangled over and over, of gasping for breath until unconsciousness set in, only to be roused and restart the process all over again. She could feel the bruises forming on her throat, overlapping those from the day before, and the day before that as well.

 

There had been a slight change this time though. He'd had had to resuscitate her before he left for the day. She'd been dead, and he'd forced her back.

 

He really was going to decide the exact time she died.

 

The knowledge left her numb.

 

Thankfully, she had some solace in the knowledge that tomorrow was the last day. She'd examined the bodies. Six days had passed. The women were always killed on the seventh day.

 

Thank God.

 

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

 

"Will you do it or not?"

 

Mycroft kept his tone bland, if a little reproachful, when he replied. "Of course Sherlock. You had but to ask."


	9. Screams Finally Heard

In under three hours, Sherlock had an email with the final possible suspects. There were only seven medical personnel of any kind who fit into the already - provided parameters even slightly.

John was sitting in his old chair at Baker street, watching Sherlock glare down at the files as if demanding they give him the information he needed. He'd managed to catch a bit of sleep earlier, but had quickly joined Sherlock here after he found out what he'd done after leaving the Yard. Calling his brother could not have been easy. John was a bit surprised, honestly, given what he'd done to the younger Holmes.

One was eliminated for being out of the country with his wife at the time of the abductions of victims four and five.

Two more were eliminated because they had been on shift working during the known abduction time of the latest victim, Molly.

Victim. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. He had to compartmentalize it all. This was just another case, just another faceless person.

He set the three men aside, and pulled the final four files he had printed out in front of him. Mycroft had been thorough in every aspect. Height, weight, vehicle pictures, even candid full body pictures of the men taken via surveillance systems in the last seven days.

Having the British Government as one's brother definitely had its advantages.

He pulled the candid pictures from each of the files, and examined them closely.

Man number one. Six feet and two inches tall, weighed approximately 180 pounds. Not him. Too slim, a medium build. The man he needed was larger.

Man number two. Six feet and two inches tall as well, weighed approximately 215 pounds. Worked as a general practice doctor in a small clinic. Possible.

Man number three. Six feet, one inch tall. Weighed approximately 195 pounds. Not -  _wait._ Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looking again at the man's name. So bloody obvious.

John sat up, noticing the glint in Sherlock's eyes.

He looked down at the file as Sherlock snatched up the picture and corresponding file, and headed for the door.

John could barely keep up while sending a text to Lestrade. It wasn't much, but he'd only caught a glimpse of the name. He could see why Sherlock was so certain. Hopefully the Detective Inspector would get there before they did.

_Sherlock's found him. Xavier Daniels. - JW_

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Molly felt numb. She'd fallen asleep after the man had left her alone. Now, she was awake again. She had the feeling that not much time had passed. The slightly deeper chill in the air told her it was night time. She let out a soft sigh.

The man had gotten a bit cocky in that she was no longer restrained in any way. She'd stepped off the mattress to test the door out of curiosity, and found it locked.

Not too cocky, then.

It embarrassed her how much her legs shook as she walked back to the bed, and collapsed onto the mattress before pulling her legs up to her chest, and holding them close.

She felt. . . resigned. Resigned to the fact that in less than twenty four hours, she'd be dead. Just another corpse on a cold, hard slab to be examined and then buried in the cold, hard ground. Maybe she'd even end up at St. Bart's. Wouldn't that be a bit funny?

At that moment, Molly didn't really find it all that amusing, actually.

She sat up and put her back to the wall, leaning against it for support. It was the only kind she'd be getting.

She began to doze.

Until she heard shouting above her.

Her gaze shot to the ceiling.

Then, she heard it. Well, him. His voice. The one she'd heard for months. Sherlock.

Finally, something. It was almost silent, except for the noise coming from above her. A chance to be heard. She screamed as loudly as possible, through the croaking, through the pain of a throat that wanted to close under pressure. She screamed, and prayed that she'd be heard.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

John was barely able to keep Sherlock from rushing into the house until Lestrade was able to get there. As it was, he couldn't stop Sherlock from examining the vehicle in front of the quaint home.

It was an exact match to the description that Mouse, his informant from the homeless network, had given him. Dark blue, with a large scratch on the left side, scraping from the passenger side door to near the back of the car, cutting off just before the tires. There was also the decal he'd been searching, the three overlapping S's in a circle, almost like petals on a flower.

Sherlock had no doubts now.

Thankfully, John didn't have to almost literally hold him back for long after he'd positively identified the vehicle. Lestrade, along with Donovan, pulled up in an unmarked cruiser.

Sherlock stood, his hands shoved in his pockets and clenched into fists. He kept his face blank as they approached. Mostly.

"This is the house." He said, as soon as Lestrade stopped in front of him.

"Sherlock, we can't just barge in without a warrant, and you haven't given me the time to get one. Now, it's late, we can come back in the morning, with the proper paperwork."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "This is the house. If we wait until morning, Miss Hooper will be dead. Do you want that blood on your hands, Detective?" He knew it was an underhanded assault, but his words were doing the trick. Lestrade glanced from him to the house, his jaw stiffening.

He was weighing the odds.

John stood to Sherlock's side. He seemed to be in military mode, waiting for an order to follow. Anyone could tell though that he was hoping for the all clear, for permission to go in and get her, no matter what it took.

Finally, after a glance behind him at Donovan, who had a somewhat sour look on her face, Lestrade sighed and nodded. "All right, but we do this by the book. Sherlock, John, you're not to say a word. Got it?"

John nodded, his shoulders loosening slightly.

Sherlock didn't say a word, but Lestrade took that as an affirmative.

From there, it was simple. Lestrade wouldn't burst into the house like some mad man. It was a routine check up, because of an anonymous tip. At least, that's what he said they were going to play it as. He even went so far as to send Donovan back to the squad car to wait for a silent signal. Too many people coming up to the door would only lead to suspicion.

With instructions clear, Lestrade led the way up to the door. It was only nine, so, while a bit late in the day, anyone inside would most likely still be awake.

He knocked on the door, and waited as a light flicked on in the hall way, and the door was opened by a simple, plain though tall and big-chested man. He had a dressing gown over his pajamas, draped and untied, clearly just thrown on over his apparel.

"Hello, Mr. Daniels," Lestrade began, keeping his voice steady, authoritative but not threatening as he held up his badge before tucking it back into place.

For being disturbed so late, the man kept a smooth face, even going so far as to smile softly. He looked like the kind of man you would accept a ride from in a tight spot, not the kind of man who would kidnap, torture, and kill several women. You never could judge by appearances alone though.

"What can I do for you - what?!" He was cut off as Sherlock, definitely not staying silent, gripped at the hand Mr. Daniels had extended for Lestrade to shake, and he shoved up the sleeve. There was wrapping around his forearm.

"She fought you, when you took her. Left marks, didn't she?" Sherlock said coldly, shoving into the room, past them all, his eyes already searching.

"What's going on here?" Mr. Daniels said loudly, still playing dumb. Odious fool.

With a drawn out sigh, Lestrade stepped in past him as well, followed closely by John.

"You know exactly what's going on here, Mr. Daniels. Or would you prefer Xavier? It is, after all, the initial you carved into those women's arms. X X X. Bit cocky, really, giving such a big clue." Sherlock said, sneering as he turned to him. "Now. Where. Is. She."

Lestrade, finally understanding, stiffened his jaw, and unclipped his hand cuffs from his belt.

Sherlock, meanwhile, didn't wait for his reply, already knowing there wouldn't be one. Basement. Had to find the bloody basement.

Then, he heard it. Almost deafened, covered by Lestrade and Mr. Daniels arguing about the need for a warrant, and other such nonsense. Screams, coming from somewhere. He couldn't get direction, with all the extra noise.

Bloody hell - "Shut up!" He shouted, and finally, things fell silent.

Except for those screams.

Forward, left.

He ran into the main room and to a door that, to anyone else, seemed to lead to a storage closet. The location was all wrong for a basement. But it was, if the hasty shuffling behind him meant anything.

"Stay away from there!" Finally, a shout, a reaction.

Sherlock didn't have to turn around to know from the thump that Lestrade was finally doing the necessary thing, hand cuffing Mr. Daniels.

He didn't pay more than a sliver of attention to anything but the door in front of him.

He pushed it open. Stairs. The screaming was louder now, broken by the occasional sob. There was another door at the end of the stairs. Banging, on the other side.

Sherlock took the steps two at a time. He tried the handle.

Locked.

Key.

He went back upstairs, his gaze narrowed on Mr. Daniels. "Where is the key?"

The man stayed silent, but no one could hide their body's reactions. He looked towards a decorative box, filled with colorful rocks. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock carelessly spilled them on the table the box sat upon, and picked up the key he needed, heading back to the door.

The banging was over now, but sobs were heard clear through the door, loud, broken by coughing fits.

Sherlock unlocked the door, and slowly pulled it open.

Molly was slumped against the wall. She didn't seem to register immediately when the door was opened. She seemed to have shut down completely.

"Molly."

A hiccuping sob was the only answer.

He knelt down beside her and waited.

When the sobs subsided into small whines, he said her name again. Finally, a reaction. Her head jerked up at her name. She swallowed, obviously trying to speak, but he just cut her off.

"Later. Just wait here." He stood up, and moved to go back upstairs and have someone call an ambulance, but a hand putting a death-grip on his pant leg stopped him.

He looked down at her, but she didn't look up at him. She didn't need to.

Sherlock didn't make another move to step away. Lestrade would be down in his own time.


	10. The Aloof and The Abused

In the end, it was actually Donovan who came down first. She looked haggard, with her lips pressed together as she descended the stairs and saw the woman practically clinging to Sherlock's leg. It wasn't in a condescending way though, more of a worried look. She'd seen just as everyone else had that this particular victim had a link to him. Hell, if you counted hearing her voice for six months as she and Sherlock spoke, she knew this one too.

She stopped a few steps from the bottom. Sherlock looked up at her, but made no move to shift away from the clinging, crying woman. His hands were shoved into his pockets as if he had all the time in the world.

They stood in stark silence for a few moments, staring each other down in a non-violent way. Finally, Donovan nodded and walked down the final steps to kneel by Molly. "We have to get you upstairs Miss Hooper. You don't want to stay here, do you?" she asked, her voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Molly blinked several times before her eyes actually seemed to focus on Donovan. "S-sally?" she stuttered through the tears.

Donovan nodded. "That's right Molly," she said, glancing up at Sherlock momentarily. Hands still in his pocket and face blank, he wasn't moving at all. If not for the small exhale-inhale motions of his stomach, he could have been a statue. She turned her attention back to Molly. "It's time to go," she said calmly.

She was surprised when Molly detached herself from Sherlock and wrapped her arms around Donovan's neck, sobbing into her shoulder. At first, she was stiff in the hold, but eventually Donovan began gently patting her back. "It's all right. It's time to go home."

Meanwhile, with his leg free, Sherlock slipped up the stairs, away from the two women. Donovan, he decided, would see to her care. After all, everyone else was fond of the voice from his phone. Everyone else had known she was real.

Everyone but him had seen the truth, and that knowledge left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He left the house. A quick glance at the squad car let him know that Lestrade had gotten the man in cuffs and arrested. Xavier Daniels, also known as the KCS killer, was sitting in the back of the car, looking miffed. Good.

John and Lestrade were talking heatedly. It was obviously about him, since as soon as he came within hearing distance they stopped. While Lestrade had a straight face, John looked worried. So, their conversation had been about his supposed relationship with the victim, then.

"Where's Molly?" John's question confirmed his deduction.

Sherlock kept his face blank. "Donovan's dealing with the victim. You know I only stay for the arrest, to confirm a case solved John. I see no reason to deal with the victims when they have nothing important to tell me." All a facade.

John's face was much more expressive. Emotions flashed one at a time. Confusion, hurt, insult, anger. "She's your friend, not some bloody victim Sherlock. You worked damn hard to find her, and you're saying you don't give a damn?" he asked incredulously.

"That's exactly what I'm saying, John. I would have worked just as hard to save another person, because I took this case and I do. Not. Lose." His words came harsh at the end.

John, for all his control, looked like he wanted to punch Sherlock in that moment. If he had tried, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't have let him do it.

Noise behind him, the door opening. Sniffles and what was meant to be consoling hums and phrases. Sherlock didn't look behind him. He knew what he would see: Molly's wide eyes staring at his back and Donovan helping her walk, occasionally shooting hateful glares at him for his abrupt departure.

He had nothing to answer for.

There were sirens in the distance. Ambulance, obviously to get Miss Hooper to the hospital.

Footsteps, closer now. Too close.

"Now that this is all wrapped up, do try to find me a more interesting case next time." He spoke to Lestrade, completely ignoring the fuming look John was giving him as he strode away towards the main road to hail a cab.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Molly's legs were shaking as Sally helped her from the house. She couldn't help but note how... ordinary everything looked. It wasn't some house in a horror movie with chains hanging from the ceiling and walls with blood spattered everywhere. It was just a plain, ordinary home, with a beige couch, glass coffee table, a telly, a few books and other decor. And yet, seven people had died here. Almost eight. Almost her.

A shiver ran down her spine. Sally was being so helpful. She was grateful for someone to lean on. Even so, she tried to stop crying. She couldn't. It seemed every little thing was getting to her. Walking from the room, up the stairs, and now, being outside, feeling grass under her feet and being able to look up and see a bit of the night sky, it all just made her cry some more.

She'd been resigned to death, and she was free. It was more than the others had ever gotten, and they must have had the same hopes of salvation as she had.

That thought made her cry some more. The tears were silent, but they continued to come, tear after tear leaving wet streaks down her cheeks before dripping off onto her shirt or continuing down her chin to disappear under the collar of it.

Even through her tears, she could see that Sally was leading her down to where Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were standing by the police car. She refused to look in the back of the cruiser, knowing what she'd see. That was a face she never wanted to see again.

As they drew closer, it became apparent that John and Greg were angry at the consulting detective. Before she could muster up the words to ask why, she heard the butt-end of what Sherlock said.

"...do try to find me a more interesting case next time."

And then, in typical Sherlock fashion, he was just... gone, leaving John, Greg, and Sally to glare at his back.

Molly stopped five feet from them, not wanting to go any closer to the car. It didn't really matter, since the ambulance they had been hearing for the past few minutes had rounded the corner. In the back of her mind, she realized it was one of St. Bart's emergency transportation vehicles. She'd be cared for by her colleagues. She was glad for that.

As she was prepared to be loaded up, Greg spoke to her. "We're going to have to ask you some questions in the morning, but for now just get better, all right?"

Molly offered a small smile to the detective inspector, and a nod. She didn't feel much like talking anymore. She was situated in the back of the ambulance, and the doors were shut behind her.

The paramedics checked her vitals, and made sure she was fine until they arrived. They spoke to her, but Molly had entered a kind of numb zone, where nothing seemed to penetrate. The questions bounced off her unanswered, and she stared at the ceiling of the vehicle until they reached the hospital.


	11. Numb Inside

Moll was unloaded from the ambulance with great care and wheeled into a private room that had been prepped ahead of time. There, she was stripped by one of the nurses, given a sponge bath, and changed into one of the regular issue hospital gowns

She was compliant and unspeaking through it all, giving only nods or shakes of her head to indicate yes or no. There were very few questions anyway, and it was all the basic information that would be in her records as an employee. She really didn't want to answer anything. Her throat felt tight, and she doubted her words would be much more than a croak.

Some of the deepest cuts in her arms needed stitches, and she held her arms straight as they were put into place by a nice man by the name of Steven, according to his name tag. Molly had never seen him before, though that didn't say much since she was still a relatively new employee, but she felt bad none the less for not thanking him. He smiled softly throughout as he worked, letting her know that no hard feelings were felt.

After the stitches were done, the nurse returned to put a loose bandage over the stitches, to keep them clean during the night. Of course, what they told her wasn't the real reason. It was to keep her from tearing them off should she have some sort of fit or attack. Some of the words they used - code terms she had only just begun to pick up on, let her know that she'd be under constant supervision as a high-risk patient.

She was at risk for nightmares, flashbacks, and shock. Not that she blamed them for wanting to be careful. She wasn't sure she trusted herself at the moment.

She was left physically alone after the nurse made sure she didn't need anything. Not that Molly really gave a clear - or any - answer anyway.

The alone time gave her a chance to think about everything. That only made everything hurt worse.

She cried before her body finally gave up, and slipped into a restless sleep full of tossing, turning, and an almost constant stream of tired, fearful tears.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

It took Molly several minutes to wake up and fully remember every detail of the day before. She stiffened up as the first dredges of wakefulness roused her, expecting any moment to hear the telltale footsteps above her or coming down the stairs. Then everything came rushing back to her, like the floodgates of her mind had opened.

It all came rushing back - her rescue, hearing Sherlock and then seeing that horrid door open and him behind it, her clinging to his leg like some child until Sally came to retrieve her. The way Sherlock had bolted away from her as soon as he was free, being led up stairs and being able to see the sky again, a sight she had always unappreciated until that moment.

She forced those thoughts from her mind. She felt numb, after everything, but in a way she preferred that to the crying mess she'd been before. At least now she felt like she had some dignity left.

She sat up in the bed, and clicked the button for a nurse to let them know she was up. She still didn't feel much like talking, but she knew that she couldn't just sit around and wait for something to happen. Still, it bothered her to have to call the people who were her colleagues. She knew how hard they worked.

The nurse who came in was one of the women she'd begun to to become friends with before this whole ordeal. The woman, Alice, greeted her with an actual, real smile, which helped to lift Molly's spirit a bit. She checked the monitors and took her pulse. Molly knew it was slightly elevated, but not at a dangerous level. Understandable.

Alice talked for a bit, mostly at rather than with Molly, but she didn't mind. She liked the small company. Finally, the subject that Alice had obviously been meaning to broach since entering came up.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade is outside if you're ready for him."

That drew a bit more of her attention to the woman. It was unusual to be warned of a police officer's impending visit. In fact, she was fairly certain it was illegal. It gave the person being questioned too much time to think and over-think what had happened, or a chance for their story to become muddled in their head.

Molly smiled softly at the warning. She certainly wasn't going to tell on her.

With a deep breath to prepare herself, she nodded. "Please send him in." Her hands fisted in the sheets as she continued. "I want to get this over with."

Alice nodded and left.

A few minutes passed before Greg came in. She smiled softly in greeting. It was nice to see a familiar face. He greeted her with a nod and held out a cup of hospital coffee.

She took it gratefully and took a sip. It was too bitter for her tastes, but she took another sip anyway before moving the cup to her lap. She held onto it with both hands as she waited for him to begin. They both seemed to need the few extra seconds to compose themselves.

Greg cleared his throat, drawing Molly's gaze up as he began.

"When, where, and how did you find yourself in captivity? The department has it's own sources, but we need your account to make sure it's right."

Molly looked down. She knew the source was Sherlock and his deductions. He was probably right about everything, but she didn't bother saying that. "I was heading to the tube to go home. It was late, about 10:30. My shift had just ended here I was listening to a..." she swallowed. She had been listening to Sherlock's violin, the song he'd written for her so long ago. " a song on my phone, so I didn't hear him come up behind me. He grabbed me and pulled me into the alley. I don't remember much after that, he manhandled me into the back of his car at the opposite end of the alley and knocked me out. After that... I woke up in that awful place." she finished in a quick tone, trying not to linger too long on any one spot so her memories couldn't overwhelm her.

Greg nodded when she was done and quickly finished writing down the last of the important parts of what she said. Not surprisingly, Molly's explanation matched fairly well with what Sherlock had said at the scene. He moved swiftly onto the next question.

"This is strictly for procedure - what do you recall of your containment, treatment wise?" his hand stiffened on the pen he held, and he glanced up. Both of them knew the heaviness of the question. A live account of what those other women had gone through.

Molly swallowed hard as she began. "He mostly left me alone... He only came into the room for a little bit each day..." She pursed her lips together. "He cut me in both arms each day for the first three visits... I guess the first three days... and he -" Molly chocked on the words, the depravity of it all, the piece that no one caught because the sick bastard had cleaned the evidence off of the other girls. Still, the feeling of his tongue against her bleeding cuts was ingrained into her mind.

"What did he do, Molly?" Greg asked.

Somehow, Molly knew he was no longer the Detective Inspector with a victim. He was Greg Lestrade, her friend, trying to help. That helped her choke out the words.

"When he c-cut me, he didn't just clean them like the reports said. He tasted the blood first."

You could have heard a pin drop in the moments that followed.

Greg uttered a cursed under his breath, and cleared his throat gruffly. "I'll requests tests for you." He said, before slipping back into detective mode. He had this look in his eyes, like there was hell to pay.

Molly relayed the rest of what happened to her. Her tone was numb, like she'd switched to autopilot and had no want to get out of it. She really didn't.

After a few more questions, Greg seemed just as worn out as she was. He said goodbye, and left as a nurse entered with a tray of food that Molly didn't even pretend to eat.

After that, the nurses came back, and took a few vials of blood for testing. Greg had indeed requested tests. They gave her a mild sedative, and Molly was able to drift off into a beautiful oblivion, where not even her memories could torment her.


	12. The Disease of Love

Sherlock tried to block everything out as he walked away. He could still feel several sets of eyes boring into his back even though he had rounded a corner and technically those eyes could no longer see him.

Lestrade's angry glare, John's disgusted scowl, and Donovan's belligerent sneer were all still burning into his back. The worst, however, was the pleading in Molly's eyes, the pain as she no doubt caught the last of his words to Lestrade. As she let the thought sink into her mind that she wasn't important.

 _If only that were true,_ Sherlock mused harshly. If only he could stop himself from caring about the lying woman he'd abandoned so coldly at the crime scene. If only the look on her face as he walked away wasn't scorched into his mind more firmly than any case or experiment could ever hope to be. If only he could just delete her from his mind. If only.

He couldn't reason anymore, and it was all her faut. She had taken and sapped away his intellect, replacing it with useless rubbish that just would not be deleted or contained.

Before all of this madness, he had been firmly and happily married to his work. His one small affair with  _The Woman_ had ended poorly, leaving him with a bad taste in his mouth and with no want other than the cases that occupied the majority of his time.

Then Mycroft came along, butting into his life once more and bringing  _her_ along, the infernal program that invaded his work, his computer and his mental hard drive. She had wriggled her way into every free nook and cranny, until she was fully immersed in his work. Until  _she_ became a part of the work he craved.

And as soon as he had settled in with the knowledge that she was a permanent, wanted addition, Mycoft came again, snatching her away and tearing his work in two.

He now looked upon the period that followed with contempt, disgust even, that he had allowed himself to crumble beneath the flaw in all humans.

Love is a disease. It rots the mind and twists one's thoughts until you are only left as a weak pile of flesh and sentiment.

Sherlock felt nauseous, allowing himself to fall prey to this affliction, this  _curse_ of the mind.

He had been so desperate to save her he had almost missed the most obvious clue. He'd even asked  _Mycroft_ for assistance, after working so hard to gain his privacy. All ruined, because of her. And for what? Nothing new or special was gained from this. None of his questions had answers yet. This was just another case, just another murderer in jail and another victim recovering form a traumatic experience.

Sherlock slammed the door as he entered his flat. He paused, eyebrows scrunched together in annoyance as he tried to recall exactly how he had gotten there. With a gruff sigh, he looked down at himself, evaluating.

Not sweaty or tired, no heavy breathing - didn't walk. Tube or Cab? Cab - no tube stations near the house and wallet is missing the approximate cost of a ride.

He removed his scarf and coat and hung them up on the rack with more force than necessary. When his coat slipped from the peg, he just left it crumpled on the floor as he walked to the couch, glaring at nothing in particular.

He had been so focused on his inner thoughts that he hadn't even registered the journey.  _That_ is why sentiment is dangerous. How long would it be before he was making dangerous, even fatal, errors while on a case?

He'd almost made one this time. Another twenty-four hours, less even, and she would have been dead, another victim to examine. The thought alone left him trembling with anger, pain, and a few other emotions he refused to put names to.

It was wrong. He shouldn't care about someone who had lied and manipulated him. He should loathe her. But no, his treacherous mind brought up the times she had made him smile, with her curious nature and her big heart.

Even if she was a program.

Especially since she was a program.

But that was all a lie. She was no program, and he was just a fool for believing that any artificial life could possibly hold the amount of undisguised emotion she had. It should have been so obvious. It  _was_ obvious. Hell, even  _Anderson_ had seen it.

He was blinded by her. He hated her.

He took a breath, exhaled, and shook his head.

"I don't hate her," he muttered, closing his eyes and leaning forward so he held his face in his hands as his elbows rested on his knees.

That made him an even bigger fool. But he couldn't hate her. His mind wouldn't allow him to feel hate for her. Not without all the information.

Suddenly, he felt exhausted. Over seventy-two hours without sleep, not allowing himself sustenance besides black coffee, and there was no buzz of a case in progress to wrestle him past any need to sleep.

He stood and walked to his bedroom, head held uncharacteristically low with no one there to see it. He felt shame. Cold, searing shame, the kind that one brings upon himself.

He pushed open the door, and shut it with a careless push behind him before all but collapsing onto the bed. He didn't even bother to change.

He was out before his body fully settled.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Sherlock groaned, trying to block out the loud banging on the bedroom door.

Alas, it just kept coming, joined by a particularly pissed off doctor shouting, "Sherlock Bloody Holmes, get up now!"

Damn man sounded like a father. Of course, considering he was one, with little Amelie growing like a weed, it was understandable that he was developing that tone all parents perfected.

"Sherlock!" The banging continued, harder now.

"All right! Just stop that infernal racket John!" He finally shouted.

The banging stopped. Blessed silence, and then: "You need to go see her, Sherlock."

He groaned once more, and stood from the bed. He opened the door with more force than necessary, and glared at the man as he took a step back. "I know that, John. Perhaps you're right though, let's go interrogate the victim for personal matters, her own recovery be damned." Of course, he spoke with a clear contempt for the very idea.

Damn her. Before, John would have been the one telling him to leave the victims of a crime like this alone.

John, for his part, paused, obviously struck silent by Sherlock's quick acceptance of actually needing to see her. And then he took in Sherlock's clothes, realizing they were the same ones from last night. An eyebrow shot up, the question clear in his expression.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I was tired, and did not feel like changing before sleeping. Now, is there anything else you would like to question me about or tell me to do that I already planned on doing?" He asked, trying to snap John out of his stupor with his usual stark sarcasm.

It worked. John pressed his lips together in a narrow line before he spoke. "Don't you dare act like an arse, Sherlock. She is our friend, not some bloody victim. And before you do any interrogating, you bloody well  _will_  apologize to her for yesterday, and for the morgue."

"Fine." He wouldn't apologize. He knew that the instant John demanded it of him. Still, the single word was spoken with a stubborn submission that only he could pull off while not actually submitting to anything at all.

Again, the acceptance of it threw John off. He was visibly suspicious of it all. Thankfully, he did not have Mary's ability to see through his fibs. After thinking it over, he nodded.

"All right then."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

"Oh, and one more thing Sherlock."

"What?" he snapped.

He really should have expected the punch John delivered to his jaw.

"That's for being a wanker for the last four months."


	13. Goldfish

John left shortly after making sure it was only Sherlock's ego that was damaged by the punch, and after making Sherlock promise that he could be there when Sherlock confronted Molly.

Sherlock agreed, rubbing his smarting jaw and giving John a piss-off look, which John returned before finally leaving.

Sherlock stripped, showered, and redressed. He wore a blood red button up, the last button at the top undone for comfort, and a pair of black slacks and black shoes.

He waited another ten minutes after dressing before he grabbed his coat and headed out.

He did not need a supervisor or a baby sitter when he and Molly spoke, despite what John might think. He would not be censored simply because he might hurt her feelings. Molly would be used to his words by now regardless.

He needed to do this on his terms, not on John's.

He hailed a cab.

"Saint Bartholomew's." were the only words he spoke for the entire ride.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

When Sherlock entered Molly's room, she was still asleep. Sherlock took the time to look her over.

He saw nothing he hadn't expected, an I.V., bandaging on her arms, a worn out expression even as she slept.

Sherlock skimmed through her medical notes. Everything looked normal. Except the final few pages.

Tests for a variety of sexually transmitted diseases were listed. Results pending, with other tests planned for a few months in the future.

No rape kit, however. STDs were transferred through the exchange of bodily fluids. Semen, blood, saliva. No open wounds were seen on Daniels, and the report and prior information of Daniels told him it wasn't rape. Not in his M/O. So, saliva.

Sherlock looked back up at her, pieces connecting.

He put the report back in place, and pulled out his cellphone.

He called. Two rings.

"Are you still speaking to me, brother dear?"

"I want you to make Xavier Daniels disappear. He never existed. Do it, or I'll do it myself."

He hung up without waiting for a response, and turned back to Molly.

Her eyes were open, and she stared silently at him. He didn't need to ask to know that she had heard the phone call.

She sat up in the bed and looked down at her lap. Her fingers were knit together, and she worried her bottom lip in her teeth.

Sherlock put his phone back into his pocket and approached the bed, sitting in the seat closest. He sat in his thinking position, hands and steepled fingers pressed against his lips lightly.

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. It was a confused, jumbled silence that was almost palpable for both of them.

"John would have rather he been here to smooth our meeting over." Sherlock said, breaking the silence. "I've elected to ignore his wishes. We have things to discuss alone."

Molly nodded, eyes still lowered. "We do. I... suppose you can start. I'm not really sure where to."

Sherlock nodded in return. He took a few moment, deliberating his words before he spoke. "You lied about several things, the least of which being the fact that you were employed by my brother and were not, in fact, a computer software program of any kind, though I'm fairly certain there was some programming involved."

"I did." Molly agreed. "And I don't really have any good reason. I needed the work, and I needed the chance he gave to me."

"What chance?" Sherlock asked, eyes narrowed slightly.

"A chance to fix things."

"Tell me how it all started."

Molly did. She explained everything. Her old job, the mix up with files that cost her her job, Mycroft approaching her less than a week later, a new start, the computer classes, and everything else between then and the end, when she was shut down and told not to search him out or all her expunged files would be retrieved and exposed.

"So, I found a loophole, because I... I wanted a chance to meet, to explain... He said I could never search you out, not that if we ever met by coincidence, I wasn't allowed to talk to you, and I knew you preferred Bart's to any other morgue. I knew you'd know me. I hoped you would." she ended, glancing up slightly.

Sherlock had a rueful smirk on his face.

"We've been played, Molly. Like a drum, I believe the term is."

Molly scrunched her eyebrows together in clear confusion. Sherlock elaborated.

"Mycroft knew you would be fired, which is how he contacted you so quickly. He set it up. He also doesn't leave loopholes. He wanted you to find it. He knew we'd met eventually. He knew that I, at least, would connect the pieces. Loathsome meddling man. He wanted me to have another goldfish after John moved out and married."

Molly frowned. "Goldfish?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not important," he said simply.

Given what she knew of Mycroft, she highly doubted it was anything complimentary, so she didn't press, even if she had had the chance to.

She didn't, because a moment later, a completely miffed John opened the door.

Sherlock stood. "So glad you could finally join us. I wondered when you'd realize."

The time, he avoided John's fist with a smooth bounce-step backwards.

Molly let out a small sound of protest. "John, please, it's fine, really. We were just talking."

John's anger abated slightly, though he still glared at Sherlock. "Should have known you'd come here as soon as you got the chance, prat."

"Yes, you should have. Thankfully, you didn't, as Molly and I had things to discuss that needed discussing without you censoring my words." Sherlock said without remorse or repentance.

John ground his teeth together. "Did you at least apologize?"

Sherlock's scowl and the silence that followed answered that well enough without an actual response.

"He doesn't need to, John," Molly said softly. "Really, he doesn't, and I don't expect him to. I don't blame him for anything. None of it was his fault."

"Then whose fault is it that he was a complete and utter arse to you and everyone else for the last four months?"

Molly looked down, unable to answer.

"I am not going to apologize, John. Take it as a reaction to the high amounts of stress. We," he said, indicating himself and Molly, "have reached an understanding, and I've things to discuss with my brother."

Without waiting for a response, he swept from the room, leaving John and Molly alone.

John looked at Molly. Molly shrugged, smiling slightly.

"He might understand, but I'm afraid I've become lost again. It's his brother, though, from what I can tell. And something about goldfish..."

John had the same confused look she had worn earlier. Molly gave another shrug.

"I think... Mycroft just didn't want Sherlock to be alone anymore." she looked down at her lap. "I don't want him to have to be alone anymore."

John's expression softened. "I knew you were real, Molls. Knew you were good for him too. I'm glad he found you."

A nurse walked in, not one she knew. They worked different shifts, she supposed.

John took that as his cue. "I've got to get back to the Missus. I'll be around."

Molly nodded. "Thanks John."

He left.

Her bandaging was changed, and she was alone again.

Instead of sleeping, Molly thought. About everything. Mycroft was a cruel man if he really had gotten her fired. Still, she couldn't hate him entirely.

Because now she had new friends. She was alive. She had Sherlock.

So, she couldn't hate Mycroft Holmes, no matter how much of a truly cold man he was.


	14. A Very Long Time

It didn't take long for Sherlock to decide a proper course of action towards Mycroft's using Molly and himself as pawns. Clearly, his own easier methods of telling Mycroft to piss off and leave him alone were no longer satisfactory to keep the British government out of his business.

So he did the thing that both he and Mycroft had agreed never to do to each other. It was cruel, bordering on illegal, but a simple phone call just as he entered Mycroft's office set it all off.

He was done playing fair with his meddlesome brother, and this method, at least, would keep his elder brother out of his personal life for some time.

He sat down, and Mycroft arched his brow.

"Anything to say, brother mine?"

"Nothing at all, brother _dear."_

Mycroft paled as his phone rang with the only sentimental tune it was programmed with.

"Checkmate, Mycroft."

Sherlock stood as Mycroft answered the phone.

He smirked, hearing his mother's scolding tone as he left his office.

Mycroft would _definitely_ learn his lesson in this particular instance.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

It took three more days of laying in the hospital, Molly was more than happy to finally be able to leave. She still had some things to do, of course, like waiting for her blood test results and a bit of physical therapy for the slight atrophy in her limbs due to the malnourishment, but it didn't seem so bad as one of the nurses she'd come to know wheeled her from the hospital.

She was a bit surprised to see a familiar car waiting for it, sleek, black, and a bit ominous if she was honest with herself.

She wasn't sure whether to be glad or put off by the fact that that it was the younger Holmes brother that stepped forward to open the door and assist her out of the wheelchair and into the side passenger seat.

The nurse and he exchanged a few words before he was handed the parcel containing her medication for the next week. Molly watched, part worried and part curious about everything, as Sherlock bid the nurse ado with more politeness than she had seen from him in a long time, and returned to the car's driver's side, sliding into place.

Molly had never seen him drive before, but he did everything with his usual ease and grace, as though he'd been driving every day for years. Molly found her gaze lingering on his hands as they gripped the steering wheel loosely.

He didn't comment, though Molly was certain he noticed her staring and the way she abruptly turned her head to stare out of the window.

From there, it was a quiet drive. Sherlock seemed content in the silence, and Molly wasn't sure what to say. There was so much _to_ say, it was just hard to figure out where to start.

Sherlock pulled into her drive and got out, still not saying a word, but he was at her door as she opened it, and held out his hand for hers to help her out.

She flashed him a grateful, if somewhat hesitant smile as she stood. His hand gently holding her arm to help steady her was a reassuring grip as he led her through the door of her flat.

She thought about asking how he could possibly know where she lived, but in the end the words fell from her lips. She'd worked with him long enough to not need the answer. It would just be a string of deductions that even she wouldn't be able to follow.

He helped her to her couch, and swept out of sight into the kitchen, leaving Molly to fidget in her seat until he returned about ten minutes later, holding two cups of freshly brewed tea. He held out a cup to her, and she took it, and took a sip from it. The flavor was comforting, with just the right amount of milk. Again, the question of how he would know how she took her tea died on her tongue.

Meanwhile, Sherlock sat down in the armchair diagonal to the couch, his own cup sitting in front of him on the small coffee table between them in a way that told her it wouldn't get touched.

She took another sip and set her cup aside. She pulled her legs up onto the couch and wrapped her arms around them, waiting.

There was another long silence. Molly wasn't willing to break it, and Sherlock seemed, for the time being at least, to be lost in his own thoughts.

His eyes eventually became trained on her. Molly looked down at her knees.

"You meant what you said."

She looked up, confusion plain on her face.

"The day before you were fired." Deleted.

It didn't take her long to figure out what he meant. She looked down at her knees again. "I suppose you don't need that confirmed. You probably have a long string of deductions lined up for how you know."

"I do. But only one is necessary."

She looked up again. "What would that be?"

"Music." He pulled her phone out of his back pocket. She gave it an odd look. Of course, she recognized it, but she didn't see how... _oh._

The realization came as he hit play on the sound track. The melody she had played over and over again, that she had recorded the day he played it for her, played now, loud and clear for both of them. It was beautiful and soft, the violin almost singing as it played.

When the track ended, it simply replayed form the beginning, as she had set it to. It was the only thing she'd listened to for a long time. Other music just... didn't compare.

She felt her cheeks growing warm as she ducked her head.

The music looped twice more before Sherlock pressed the stop button and set the phone aside. He shifted into a position Molly knew well, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and hands folded together, the tips of his fingers pressed just barely into his lower lip.

"Sentiment." His only word, but Molly understood. She nodded.

"Sentiment," she agreed. She nuzzled her cheek into her knee. "I liked the music... and I missed you. A lot." She swallowed. "I thought for sure you'd come into Bart's, so I took the position. I thought... I could explain, when you came in and realized everything. I knew you would. But you didn't come. Not for a while, at least. I liked the job, of course. When you did come... and left... I figured it was nothing less than what I deserved. After all, how stupid is it? A person pretending to be a computer program. Preposterous... I hated it. Except for..." Her voice trailed off.

"Except for having met me."

Molly nodded. No point in denying it. "I'd seen you on the telly, before, but you always seemed so... cold. Aloof. Mean, even. But you're not. No matter what you portrayed to the public, you aren't... John and Mary see it. Mrs. Hudson. Greg knows it's there too, even though you don't show him as much... Sorry."

Molly heard Sherlock stand, but she didn't look up. She heard him begin to pace, his footfalls coming softly, at a relaxed rhythm. So, not angry. Just thinking. Motion helped him think, if he wasn't going to his mind palace.

Molly smiled softly and waited for him to speak, knowing he was processing something, finding the best way to say it. She didn't have to wait long.

"When I first discovered your deceit, I was... angry. I couldn't believe that I hadn't seen it. No program could be that real. Everyone had seen it except for myself. You yourself gave so many clues that I ignored. I listened to my base understandings, what I've observed about humanity. It told me that no one would act as you had. When you were deleted, I was... upset. No, no point in diminishing it, I was furious. Mycroft had effectively proven that which, until you, I firmly believed. Sentiment is a defect found in the losing side. After all, sorrow was rotting my mind, and there was a cruel irony in the fact that I, the man most called a machine, had begun to... feel for a machine."

Sherlock soon his head, clamping his mouth shut. Molly began following him with her eyes. She stayed silent, knowing there was more. She gave him the time he needed to... process it.

"I decided, when I saw you in the lab, that I would hate you, and simply use you as I had before, except in a more... Bloody hell, what's the word?" Sherlock's pacing grew faster, more frustrated as the man himself did. Molly just waited.

"Corporeal," he said suddenly, nodding in self-confirmation as he continued. "Corporeal. Real. And, based on simple observation, easily manipulated."

There was another pause as Sherlock stopped his pacing, and turned to face her, his eyes locking with hers.

"But then you had to go and get kidnapped." He said it as though it was somehow her fault. She almost told him to leave. Until, without missing a beat, he continued.

"I've been told worry - in extreme measures - can act as a mending agent. Something that compounds things into something more understandable. That is completely false. When you were kidnapped, after the identity of the kidnapper had been ascertained, I felt nothing short of blood-chilling terror, not something I shall ever admit outside of this room. I had already gone through your death... deletion, whatever term. Regardless of the term, I had already lost you once, and despite my intention to completely ignore you, I could not... I could not bear the thought of having to go through losing you again."

Molly looked down again, unable to continue meeting his eyes as her cheeks heated. "...I'm... not going anywhere, Sherlock. As long as you need me," she said softly.

She heard him begin to move closer, but she didn't look up until he knelt down in front of her, and tilted her chin up with his hand.

"That may be a very long time, Molly."

She smiled softly, recognizing his words from so long ago. That day, she had been filled with... pain, because the closest they would ever be was between a screen.

Now, as his hand shifted to cup her cheek, she brought hers up to cover his.

"I'm okay with that."

He let out the smallest chuckle as she gave the same response as she had that day. That chuckle tasted so sweet as he brought their lips together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! It's been so long XD I hope you all enjoy this, one left ^_^


	15. Epilogue

It had taken a week after Sherlock brought her home to her flat for him to come whining that he needed an assistant at his. Of course, there was only one person he trusted for such an important position with John busy with Mary and their daughter. After he explained this fact in great detail, who was Molly to say no?

Now, three months later, Molly was quite happy to say she was a bit more than just an assistant. Sherlock scoffed at the terms, but she was very happy to be his girlfriend. It was kind of funny, how similar their arrangement was to before. She still woke him up and told him to sleep and eat when he went too long. She still helped him with his cases and allowed him to talk at her when he needed someone to simply listen.

It was the differences in these things though, that made it so much better. She woke him with a gentle caress through his hair, the press of her lips to his cheek or by arching against him when he held her and she needed to get away for one reason or another. She took his hand and gently tugged him to the bedroom when she could see his eyes getting weary from a long case, and she placed a plate of food in front of him instead of calling take away from miles away when he didn't eat for days. Instead of looking through a phone, she assisted at the autopsy table in the morgue for his cases. When he needed someone to listen to him talk, she would sit on the couch, he would place his head in her lap, and she would run her fingers through his curls as he told her his deductions and ran through the case with her.

The marks on her arms had scabbed over nicely and had healed as well as expected. There were scars. She traced the X's with her fingertips sometimes and remembered, because even though her body had healed, her mind still held its own scars, carved into her memories just as surely as the X's on her skin.

The first time Sherlock caught her tracing them, he had taken her into his arms and pulled her against him with the most solemn look in his eyes. No matter what anyone thought about him being awkward or strange, Molly had never seen him more human than that day.

It was strange, looking back now. Their story was an odd one, but she wouldn't trade any of it.

At the end of the day, when she was curled up on the couch watching crap telly and he was typing away at his laptop, Sherlock would pull out his cellphone. She would smile and retrieve hers even before it went off with his text.

Sometimes, it was about his case, what he was reading, or some simple fact he thought she might be interested in.

Sometimes, it was something so much more simple. It never made sense to anyone who saw, but looking at the words as they lit up her screen, there was only ever one response.

_This may be a very long time, Molly. - SH_

_I'm okay with that. - Molly_

**_.:*Fin*:._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, readers, for taking this journey with me <3


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